


Promises

by Obotligtnyfiken



Series: Chickens coming home to roost [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Season/Series 04, First Kiss, Happy Ending, M/M, Sherlock's Past, Teen Sherlock, ghosts from the past
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-02
Updated: 2017-06-02
Packaged: 2018-11-07 20:57:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11067000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Obotligtnyfiken/pseuds/Obotligtnyfiken
Summary: “Don’t tell.  Kissing, and seeing each other and … stuff like that. Let’s not talk about it with anyone.”“Alright,” Sherlock whispered. “I won’t talk about it.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Wetislandinthenorthatlantic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wetislandinthenorthatlantic/gifts).



> This fanfiction takes place before season four of BBC’s Sherlock, and the end is an alternative version to the beginning of season four. It is inspired by the prompt “ghosts from the past” + waterfall that I got from my wonderful beta, the fanfiction writer wetislandinthenorthatlantic. 
> 
> The prompt is based on one of my “Moffat’s Chickens”: twelve ideas from the hiatus about what Steven Moffat could have meant when he said in an interview that chickens were coming home to roost in s4. Link for Moffat's Chickens: https://obotligtnyfiken.tumblr.com/post/138370350688/master-post-for-moffats-chickens
> 
> I do not own these characters. This work is for entertainment purposes only.

_2010_

Sherlock flitted around the living room at 221 B Baker Street, haphazardly trying to straighten up. He felt oddly embarrassed by John’s comment on his messy belongings, but this was still his best night in a long time. The flat itself held the promise of a better life, and John was such an exhilarating possibility. He probably wouldn’t stay long, of course, but it would still be something different. Maybe there would be murders as well.

“What do you think then, Doctor Watson? There’s another bedroom upstairs … if you’ll be needing two bedrooms?” Mrs Hudson asked. Sherlock felt his throat constrict and his disciplined mind skittering away, as if his thoughts were sliding on ice in a steep slope.

“Of course we’ll be needing two bedrooms.” John said, nonplussed.

Holding his breath, Sherlock waited for the moment to pass. Grown ups usually let these things go, but John was new and so delightfully difficult to read. Sherlock hoped to get his tongue back before the situation became even more awkward. _Cat got your tongue?_ his mind played back for him in a broken adolescent  voice. He decided to delete that expression once and for all at the first opportunity.

He was saved by the murders, as he had been so many times before. John was saved too, it seemed. There was a dangerous moment at the restaurant, where John started flirting with him. He managed to deflect him before his mouth got stuck again, something about being married to his work. Then they ran. Everything was alright after that.


	2. Chapter 2

_ 1995 _

At fifteen, Sherlock met the first person who looked him in the eye and smiled as if he had discovered a treasure. Victor Trevor was a light brown boy - light brown hair, hazel eyes with the tiniest golden flecks in them, and a soft face that tanned easily. When he smiled, his eyes sparkled like the gold tinsel Sherlock’s grandmother put in her Christmas tree.    


Victor started winking at Sherlock in the hallways at school, when no one could see. Sherlock blushed and hurried away. 

On a blustery February day, Victor stepped off the bus at the same stop as Sherlock on the way home from school. “Can I walk with you?” he asked. 

Sherlock frowned and smiled and nodded at the same time and had no idea what his face was doing. They walked along in silence for a little while.

“So, what do you think about the new chemistry teacher? He’s pretty good, isn’t he?” 

Sherlock stared at Victor, disbelieving. He didn’t mean that, did he? Mr Johnson didn’t know a thing about chemistry, from what Sherlock could tell. Was this one of those jokes that he was supposed to reply to? Or did it require a deadpan response? Before he could decide on a plan of action, he stumbled on a crack in the pavement and fell flat on his face.

“Oh my God, are you ok?” Victor helped him up. His fingers lingered on Sherlock’s arms, leaving hot trails as they slowly fell away. “You’ve got …” Victor made a vague gesture towards Sherlock’s forehead. 

Sherlock rubbed his forehead, thankful for the opportunity to hide behind his own hand for a moment.

“No, not there!” Victor gently pushed his hand away and picked a withered oak leaf out of Sherlock’s hair. He held the leaf out, and to his surprise, Sherlock realised that his fingers had taken it. Victor smiled another of his golden smiles, and said “Better!”. He winked and walked away with his backpack slung over his shoulder.

After that, Victor started showing up whenever Sherlock was on his own, and Sherlock started looking for opportunities to skulk about in the secluded corners of the school that he had previously avoided. One afternoon, they hid behind a shed at the far end of the school grounds, taking shelter from the rain under the overhang. They shared a cigarette, letting their fingers touch for longer and longer as it passed between them. 

“Let’s stay,” Victor said. “Chemistry is boring.”

Sherlock felt proud for stopping himself from disagreeing. Chemistry wasn’t boring at all, but chemistry class was. That wasn’t the same thing, but Victor probably saw it that way. Mummy was always saying that he should focus more on what he had in common with other people, and less on what set him apart. 

They skipped class and stayed under the overhang, dry but shivering in the cold. That wet afternoon, Sherlock was kissed for the first time. He tried to catalogue the sensation so that he could remember it forever. Victor’s lips were cold on the outside and the vermilion of the lip was a bit chafed. On the inside, they were warm, the mucus membrane soft and slippery. Sherlock stood perfectly still and wanted the kiss never to end. When Victor pulled back, Sherlock hoped for more, but Victor put his finger over Sherlock’s mouth and said “Don’t tell.  Kissing, and seeing each other and … stuff like that. Let’s not talk about it with anyone.”

“Alright,” Sherlock whispered. “I won’t talk about it.”      


 

_ \--- _

 

“Sherlock!” 

Sherlock pulled his blanket over his head and tried to block out the sound. It was Saturday. There was nothing his mother could say that could make him get out of bed this early.

“Sherlock! It’s Victor on the phone!”

Sherlock jumped out of bed, thundered down the stairs and snatched the phone from his mother. “Yes?” he breathed, turning his head towards the coat rack on the wall so that he was speaking into the lining of his father’s Mackintosh. It was probably a futile attempt, but if he spoke silently enough, his mother might not hear everything. It would probably have worked better back when the coats were waterproofed with galvanised rubber. He made a mental note to check up on the soundproofing properties of various fabrics later on. 

“Hi! I was …” Victor sounded uncertain, as if his mother was standing behind him. Sherlock listened more carefully and thought that he could hear a rustle a few feet behind Victor. It was difficult to judge with his own breath rasping into the mouthpiece.

“I was talking to my mother and … Would you like to come stay with us for Easter?” Victor finally said.

Sherlock was stunned. Come stay? As in … a guest? Alone?

“You don’t have to, of course. You probably have plans …”

“No, no. I want to. I want to come.”

“Oh, good. Well …” 

A voice could be heard behind Victor. Early forties, used to smoke. Possibly. Or maybe she had had a cold. Sherlock tried to determine if her nose was congested, but gave it up as a bad job. 

“My mother wants to talk to your mother,” Victor said.

“Oh, ok.” Sherlock turned around and held out the phone to his mother. “Here. It’s for you.”

His mother got a worried look on her face and gripped the phone a bit too hard. “Hello? This is Mrs Holmes?”

Sherlock gnawed on his thumb as he tried to hear Mrs Trevor’s voice on the other end of the line. After endless minutes of inane chatter about how lovely and wouldn’t it be an imposition and what about bringing clean sheets and no, Sherlock didn’t have any allergies so he could eat anything (which wasn’t true at all, why would she say that he’d eat anything?), she finally hung up. 

“Oh, Sherlock!” she beamed. “How wonderful!”

Sherlock scowled at her. This was not an appropriate response from a mother. He didn’t actually know what an acceptable reaction would look like, but this wasn’t it. He tasted blood and quickly tried to hide his hand behind his back. 

“We have to check your socks and your pyjamas. You have been growing like a bean stalk this past year. We will go shopping on Saturday, you probably need a new pair of trousers and some shirts as well …” She disappeared into the kitchen, still talking.

The phone rang again. Sherlock snatched it up without thinking and held his breath, waiting for one of his chatty relatives to start yapping away.

“You haven’t told anyone, have you?” Victor whispered.

“No. I haven’t.” Sherlock’s stomach twisted into a knot for some odd reason.

“Well, let’s not. OK?”

“OK.”

“OK, then,” Victor said and sounded relieved. “See you Monday!”

“See you,” Sherlock mumbled and hung up the phone. 


	3. Chapter 3

_ 1995 _

It was a relief to get out of the house for a while. Sherlock felt claustrophobic behind its heavy curtains and whenever he came less than three feet from Victor, the boy jumped as if Sherlock had stepped on his toes. Sherlock didn’t know what to do or what to say, so he tried to stay as quiet as possible. That wasn’t working out very well either, unfortunately. Victor’s parents seemed to think that he was an unusually shy boy and had decided to draw him out of his shell with constant chatter and inane questions about his interests and school. 

Finally, Victor had suggested a walk in the forest, and Sherlock had jumped at the idea. He would usually have scoffed at the mere thought of going for a walk, not to mention doing it in a forest, but he'd do anything to get away from the nightmare of socialising.

The forest was actually quite nice. It was a warm day with sun and a bit of a breeze. There were native bluebells on the forest floor that made Victor happy and seeing Victor’s eyes sparkle in the spring sunshine made Sherlock happy. Victor would look fantastic in a shirt of that colour, Sherlock thought. Maybe he could tell his mother that he needed another shirt and that he wanted to buy it himself. She would probably be ecstatic at the idea. Then he could buy a deep violet-blue one for Victor with the money she gave him and a cheap one from the second hand store for himself with his pocket money. She would never notice the difference, she had terrible taste.

Sherlock was woken from his daydreams of dressing Victor, which for some reason included detailed visions of helping him get out of his present shirt to try his gift on, when Victor suddenly stopped and turned around, making Sherlock bump into him. This time, Victor didn't move away. He stepped closer and snuck his arm around Sherlock's waist. He waved at the forest in front of them and said “Look!”

Sherlock looked into Victor’s eyes and felt like he was spinning.

“No, silly! Look!” Victor put his fingers on Sherlock’s chin and gently turned his face towards the view. Oh! There wasn’t just forest ahead of them. They were standing at the top of a steep slope. In front of them was a small valley and at the other side, a waterfall. It wasn’t very big, or very high, but it was spectacularly beautiful. Sherlock felt his face break out into an unaccustomed grin.

They stood watching for a moment. Then Victor slid his hand into Sherlock’s and pulled playfully. “Come on! Let’s go explore!”

Sherlock and Victor descended along a path that meandered down towards the river at the bottom of the valley. As they got closer, Sherlock realised that it was more of a brook than a river. It was about three meters wide, but shallow, and the current wasn’t particularly strong. They picked their way through the weeds at the edge of the brook until they got to a natural ford. A few large flat stones were peeking out of the water and stepping on the stones allowed them to cross the water without getting wet. For the first time, Sherlock felt glad for his long, spindly legs that seemed to grow a centimeter every week.

On the other side of the brook, the forest was dense and there were shrubs growing along the bank. It was colder here. Droplets from the waterfall hung in the air and sunbeams peeking through the leaves made the air look striped, like a rugby sweater. Victor led Sherlock to a little hollow next to the waterfall, where you could almost step in behind the cascading water. 

Looking through the water as it fell was mesmerising. Sherlock had never been this close to a waterfall and he had no idea water could dance like this. The sound of the water hitting the rocks and splashing against itself along the way created a modulating sound, almost like a bullroarer being swung by someone who were not used to it - it kept returning to the same pitch, but then moving away from it again. Sherlock started listening for intervals. Maybe he could record the sound and use it as accompaniment for a violin composition?

“Hey,” Victor said softly and touched Sherlock’s shoulder. “Where did you go to?”

Sherlock turned and tried to look at Victor. After a moment, the overwhelming sensation of the waterfall fell back and Victor’s flushed face came into focus. “I’m sorry, I … I was listening to the waterfall.”

“Dreamer,” Victor smiled and brushed a lock of hair from Sherlock’s forehead. Slowly, he leaned forward and kissed Sherlock softly on the lips. The air stilled and the waterfall froze and the forest went quiet and all Sherlock could hear was the pounding of his own heart and the blood rushing through his ears. 

Victor let his hand slide slowly through Sherlock’s hair and down to his neck. After a minute, Sherlock remembered to breathe and opened his mouth with a gasp. Victor opened his mouth too and their breaths mingled, making Sherlock feel warm inside and a little faint. 

Pulling Sherlock closer, Victor pressed their mouths together, brushing softly against the inside of Sherlock’s lower lip. He put his other hand on Sherlock’s waist and Sherlock realised that his own hands were hanging stupidly down his sides. He forced them to move slowly upwards until he could place them on Victor’s waist, mimicking Victor. 

It felt like Victor’s shirt was breathing, as if the warmth from Victor’s body was seeping through the tiny holes between each thread and through the fibers of the cotton. He experimentally tried pushing a little harder against the fabric to get closer to the skin inside. He felt the soft and slightly rough texture of the Oxford weave and wished he was that fabric. He wished he was Victor’s shirt, wrapped around him, keeping him warm, feeling the heat from his skin and brushing against him everytime he moved.

Suddenly, Victor pushed Sherlock back and turned around. “Oi! What do you think you are doing?” Victor yelled hoarsely and sprinted into the forest. “Harry! Get back here! Harry!” 

Disoriented, Sherlock looked around for a moment before spotting a skinny child dashing up the slope behind them. Victor was not far behind, but he kept crashing into trees that the kid was slipping through, cursing and yelling as he fought to keep up. Sherlock could not figure out what had happened, but instinctively took up the chase as well.

Sherlock crashed his way up the slope, trying to keep Victor and the fleeing little boy in sight. The bushes and branches were even harder for Sherlock's long, uncoordinated limbs to force. When he got to the top, he almost fell into the brook, which was narrower, deeper and flowing faster above the waterfall than at the bottom of the valley. He grabbed a willow branch to steady himself but didn’t realise how far they could bend. The branch swung out over the water and took him with it, his upper body hanging over the water and his feet scrambling for purchase on the slippery bank. When the branch stopped swinging, he slowly pulled himself up with his arms until he could push himself backwards and crouch gracelessly until he got his balance back. 

He stood and brushed himself off, his arms trembling with exertion. Finding a safer place to stand, he peeked out along the brook to see where Victor had gone. The forest seemed deserted and he couldn’t hear a thing over the noise from the waterfall. Where had they gone?

Sherlock started running upstream, but the forest felt foreign and threatening. He turned back to the waterfall and found a spot close to the edge with a large boulder jutting out into the water. A small pool of water was caught behind it and the bank was waterlogged, full of mud and rotting leaves. He tiptoed across the mud, scrambled up onto the rock and managed to find a precarious position that allowed him to peer down into the valley, his hands on the top and his toes finding purchase in small cracks in the slope at the back of the rock. 

At first, nothing moved except a bird that kept flying back and forth with tiny twigs, building its nest. Just as Sherlock’s legs were starting to cramp, he saw Victor down in the valley running towards the waterfall. There was something odd about him, about the way he moved. Fear gripped Sherlock's heart and he couldn’t breathe. Was Victor hurt? He raised his hand and waved at him, shouting his name. 

Victor probably couldn’t hear him, but he was looking around, searching, and after a while, he spotted Sherlock on top of the rock. He gave an aborted wave and started running up the slope again. Sherlock gave another wave, as big as he could, but his hold on the rock wasn’t good enough to maintain the position with only one hand. He felt his fingers slip as his waving right arm made his torso shift and he fell unceremoniously backwards into the muddy pool.

There was mud in Sherlock's mouth. He sputtered and tried to open his eyes, but there were splashes of mud all over his face and it got in his eyes. He squeezed them shut and instinctively tried to wipe them with his hands, but they were covered in mud too. He felt disoriented and the the waterfall sounded terribly close.  Was he about to fall over the edge? Sherlock had never been afraid of heights, but without being able to see anything, vertigo took him and he felt his breathing speed up. The taste of mud made him nauseous. He pressed his arms and legs down into the mud, trying to ground himself, make himself too heavy to be carried by the current down, down, down into the abyss.

“Sherlock!” Victor cried and poked him in the arm. “Sherlock, are you alive?”

The absurdity of the question shook Sherlock from his panic. “Yes, of course I am alive. I can’t see a thing for all this mud. Help me up, will you?”

“Oh, thank God!” Victor grabbed Sherlock’s hand and started to pull awkwardly. Sherlock found his feet and started rubbing his face with his sleeves. He managed to get his eyes dry enough to risk opening them carefully, blinking away tears and dirt. Victor stood in front of him, shaking and pale. Why was he shaking? Sherlock narrowed his eyes and started looking for clues. Suddenly, Victor turned around and vomited violently into a bush. This was wrong. Something was very wrong.

Sherlock stared at Victor’s heaving back, trying to fit the pieces of the puzzle together. His eyes flicked back and forth, gathering data but finding nothing but leaves and stones and mud. The mud had a high content of silt, the stones were shale and limestone and the leaves were mainly oak and beech, but none of these things held a clue as to why Victor was throwing up.  Victor stood up, still shaking but a little less pale. 

“You can never tell anyone about this,” Victor said. “Not any of it.”

Sherlock stared at him. Why was Victor so afraid? He ran his eyes over Victor, taking in his hunched posture, his shaking hands, and the desperation in his eyes. 

Suddenly, it all made sense. Victor wasn't just afraid. He was ashamed. Victor was so ashamed of Sherlock that he was vomiting with fear of being found out. 

“Yes,” Sherlock whispered. 

“You have to promise me,” Victor said. 

“I promise.”

“Let’s clean up and go home.”

Victor led them upstream to a clear pool created by a bend in the river. They washed their faces and hands and Sherlock tried to straighten his clothes. 

When they were done, Sherlock started walking back towards the waterfall, but Victor stopped him. “We’ll take another way home,” he said and started pushing through the bushes along the bank upstream. 

It took ages to get home. Victor led them up the river to another ford, where they had to take off their shoes and wade through the icy water. Then, they walked through the forest on tiny paths, or on no paths at all. When they finally got to Victor’s house, he made Sherlock wait at the edge of the garden while he sneaked in and opened the back door. Sherlock dashed in and took off his muddy clothes in the downstairs toilet while Victor got clean trousers and a shirt from Sherlock’s bag upstairs. Sherlock carried the muddy bundle on outstretched arms up the stairs to avoid getting mud on his clean clothes and stuffed it in his bag. He stayed in the guest room for the rest of the afternoon. He brushed his teeth until his gums bled, but he couldn't make the taste of earth and rotting plants go away. 


	4. Chapter 4

_ 2014 _

Five minutes. He had once managed to hold his breath for five minutes. If he could just hold it for half a minute now, he might postpone the pain for long enough to think one single thought through to the end.

Sherlock gasped and felt the world implode into a single point of excruciating pain and then expand until his whole chest was on fire. 

“You've got to breathe, Sherlock! Come on, slow breaths. Breathe with me. In … and out.”

John's voice sounded very far away. Sherlock kept being lulled to safety by his presence, only to get caught up again in an undefinable anxiety that somehow had something to do with John, he just couldn't figure out what. He had to get his brain back, just for a moment!

“Shh, calm down, Sherlock. Everything is going to be alright. Just breathe.”

Sherlock could hear John talking to someone about morphine and pain management and then everything became fuzzy and blank and sort of pain free for a while. 

 

\---

 

“You don't tell him.”

Sherlock thought of nodding, but wasn't sure if his head had moved. He never told. He wasn't sure who the voice belonged to or what he had promised them, but he knew he didn't break promises. He couldn’t even if he tried, so they were quite safe. He wouldn’t tell.

“Sherlock!”

Sherlock opened his eyes and tried to find out where the voice came from. A blonde head swam in front of him. 

“You don't tell John.”

Sherlock's heart started beating furiously. Mary’s face came into focus. Too close. Too much perfume. Perfume! Not Lady Smallwood, Mary Watson. She swore she would kill him. Did she always keep her promises too? 

“Look at me and tell me you’re not going tell him,” Mary insisted. 

Sherlock closed his eyes and let the morphine fog take him. He could feel his eyes and mouth filling up with mud and rotting leaves. He was lost. He was utterly, utterly lost. 


	5. Chapter 5

_ 1995 _

Sherlock followed Victor down the stairs. He had no idea how he was supposed to manage eating with the disgusting taste of mud and mint in his mouth. Enduring dinner conversation seemed even more impossible. 

Just as they entered the kitchen, there was a knock on the door. Victor’s father went to answer it while the rest of them sat down. Sherlock tried to hear what they were talking about, but he could only make out voices, not words. They sounded serious and worried. Concerned, but not for themselves. A few moments later, Victor’s father entered the kitchen with a police officer.

“This is Constable Collins. It seems that Harry, the neighbour’s boy, has gone missing.”

“Oh, no!” Victor’s mother said. “What happened?”

“He was out playing this afternoon and never came home,” Constable Collins replied. “We think he may have gone into the forest on his own. He has done so before, apparently. Have any of you seen him today?”

Sherlock looked up at Victor, who quickly replied “No, we didn’t see him. We didn’t see anyone at all.”

“And you, Mrs Trevor?”

“No, I’m sorry. Do they need help searching?”

“We are talking to all the neighbours right now. If he doesn’t turn up, we’ll have to start searching the forest and then we will need all the help we can get.” 

Sherlock’s heart was beating so fast that he thought it would jump out of his chest. He stared at Victor, who wouldn’t meet his eyes.  This couldn’t be happening. Someone had to say something. 

“Thank you for your time, Mr and Mrs Trevor. We’ll let you know if there’s a search party later on.”

“Thank you, and good luck, Constable,” Victor’s father replied and followed him to the door.

Sherlock fought the tightness in his throat but didn’t manage a single sound. He kicked at Victor under the table. Victor finally looked at him with hard eyes and shook his head once. Sherlock sank down in his chair and tried to slow his heartbeat with deep breaths like he had been taught.

“Sherlock, dear, what’s wrong? Are you not feeling well?” Mrs Trevor started to rise from her seat.

“I’m fine,” Sherlock mumbled.

“You don’t look fine to me. You are pale as a sheet.” She walked round the table and sat down next to him, pressing the back of her hand against his forehead.

“I’m fine,” Sherlock repeated, trying to sound more convincing.

She looked between Sherlock and Victor, frowning. “Did you two boys see anything unusual today? You took a walk in the forest, didn’t you?”

“No! I already told you so,” Victor said. “We didn’t see anything.”

“What about you, Sherlock?” Mrs Trevor said.

Sherlock clenched his jaw and tried not to start shaking.

“I said, we didn’t see anything! Are you deaf!” Victor shouted.

“Victor! Keep your voice down! I am talking to Sherlock,” his mother replied firmly. “Sherlock, dear, did you see any other children when you were outside today?”

Sherlock felt his breathing speed up and he looked desperately at Victor. He had to tell them. He just had to.

“Sherlock?” Mrs Trevor repeated.

Victor was staring at him, Mrs Trevor was staring at him and now Mr Trevor had returned from the hall and was looking at him as well. Sherlock could feel a bead of sweat running down his temple. He had to do something. Anything. He looked Mr Trevor in the eye.

“You have a secret that you don't want anyone to know. It's from a long time ago and you haven't told your wife. I'm not sure what it is, but I'm fairly certain that it's something illegal.”

He turned to Mrs Trevor, who was gaping at him. “You pretend that you have stopped smoking, but you haven't. You don't smoke at home and not in the village either, in case someone sees you. You hate the forest, in fact you wish you were living in the city again, so you must be doing it indoors somewhere. There is probably someone living close by who is flirting with you and you allow it so that they will let you sneak into their house for a cigarette.”

Sherlock faced Victor with his chin held high. “The only reason you get good grades is that you peek at other people's papers during tests and you've charmed five different girls into doing homework for you,” he said haughtily. “Your grades and your parents’ connections will get you into Oxford or Cambridge, but once you get there you will struggle and probably fail.”

Sherlock's mind felt clear and he could breathe again. He leaned back into the chair. After a few minutes, he realised that the room was still oppressively silent. Mr and Mrs Trevor were staring at each other and Victor was staring at him, his face red with anger. He squirmed in his seat under Victor’s gaze. 

Finally, Mrs Trevor broke the silence. “Sherlock, go to your room and pack your bag, please. I will call your mother to come and get you.”

 

**\---**

 

Sherlock slammed the car door shut and slouched in the passenger seat, digging his fingernails into his palms to stop himself from shouting, crying, shaking. Enough. He would do none of those things. None of them.

Outside the car, a muffled goodbye was being said. Sherlock could not make out the exact words, but it was clear that it was brief, terse and final. His mother’s footsteps crunched on the gravel of the driveway and he tucked his chin into his jacket collar. She opened the car door, sat down in the driver’s seat and started the engine.

“Sherlock,” she said. “You have to tell me what happened.”

Sherlock felt his tongue stick to the roof of his mouth. It tasted like mud. He said nothing.

“What they told me, Sherlock … You behaved appallingly. I know you can be thoughtless but that was unacceptable. What on earth possessed you to say those things?”

Sherlock sank deeper down into the car seat. He could feel Victor and his family staring at him through the window. He desperately tried not to look at them, but he didn’t know how long how he could resist. “Let’s go. Start driving,” he said.

His mother sighed and started the long drive down the avenue to the main road. Her knuckles were white as she gripped the steering wheel.

“Were you upset? Did something happen?”

Sherlock closed his eyes and made a supreme effort not to sigh. His mother was like a bloodhound and evasion only made her more tenacious. He had to give her something. 

“No, I wasn’t upset,” he said. It was true enough. He used to get upset when he was little and this felt nothing like those tantrums. 

“So what were you doing?”

Sherlock opened his mouth to spin another tale, but his throat constricted and his eyes started to water. The taste of mud was making him want to throw up. This was intolerable. He would not cry like a baby, even if it felt like his soul had deflated and ripped the lining of his rib cage as it shrunk. He could almost feel the blood dripping down into his abdomen, even though he knew it that wasn’t possible. 

His mother was silent for a long time. Sherlock thought that she had perhaps let it go for once, but when they were almost home, she stopped the car by the side of the road and turned to face him.

“Sherlock. You made a promise, didn’t you?”

Sherlock looked pointedly out of the window.

“Not all promises have to be kept, Sherlock. You know that, right? If someone made you promise something, and you regret making that promise, you do not have to keep it. You can tell an adult and we can talk about it.”

Oh, God, not the “tell an adult” speech again. He was not a child and he would not be treated like a child anymore. He rolled his eyes and grunted as dismissively as he could.

“Alright, alright. I’m sorry. But please, Sherlock! No more promises? Please say you will make no more promises?”

Sherlock finally turned his head to face his mother. He pulled up his most sarcastic face and sneered “I promise, Mother.” He almost made it, but on the final syllable, his voice broke and tears sprang to his eyes. Mortified, he snapped his head around to face the window and pressed the side of his head into the headrest. He decided to see how long he could go without breathing. That would give him something to do. Also, it would postpone the shame of drawing what would certainly be a shaky breath, or perhaps even a sob, in front of his mother.

A thin hand rested briefly on his shoulder and then the car started moving again. Sherlock thought that he should just promise himself to never feel anything again. As soon as the thought materialised in his mind, it skittered away again, leaving him with a furiously beating heart and shaking hands. He gnawed his teeth so hard it almost hurt. God, he was so stupid! She had tricked him! He had promised no more promises. Fine. He would live his life promise-free. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered. 

Sherlock made it for two minutes without breathing, which was pitiful compared to the five he had once managed. It seemed like a fitting end to the worst weekend of his life.


	6. Chapter 6

_ 2015 _

_ Sherlock is caught under the waterfall and he can't get his flailing arms and legs to cooperate. Muddy lips are kissing him, harshly.  _

_ “Don’t tell!” a broken, adolescent voice hisses.  _

_ He turns his head and the falling water splashes away the mud from his eyes. He turns back and opens his eyes. Hazel eyes are staring back at him, blurred by the water. He forces his gritty mouth to form words. “I won’t tell, Victor. I promise I won’t tell!” _

_ “Don’t tell!” As Sherlock watches, the eyes change their colour from brown to blue. The voice is higher now, female. “Sherlock, you don’t tell John!”  _

_ Mary. Her voice grows louder and louder.  _

_ “You do not tell!” The words are ringing in Sherlock’s ears, echoing in his skull. His tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth. _

_ Finally, Sherlock wrestles his limbs from the mud and water. He clamps his hands over his ears and tries to promise her, tries to move his mouth. “Mary …” he manages. _

John tried to slip quietly into 221B, in case Sherlock was asleep. They had run around London all night in some incomprehensible chase for leads to Moriarty's resurrection until even Sherlock looked worn out and gave up for the night. John was supposed to go home, but when he got to the underground station, he couldn't make himself go down the stairs. Guilt crept up on him for disturbing his friend, and leaving his pregnant wife. He shouldn’t be here, but tonight he felt about to implode. Just a cup of tea, he promised himself. Then he'd face his life again. He knew it would not be enough. It would never be enough. 

He tiptoed into the kitchen, peering down the hallway towards Sherlock’s bedroom. The door was open and the room was dark and silent. He could be in there, but John didn’t want to go closer, in case he’d wake him. He went out into the living room to turn a lamp on, but a whimpering sound stopped him. In the light from the street, he saw a curled up figure on the sofa. 

“I won’t tell, Victor, I promise I won’t tell!” Sherlock whispered. He had his hands over his ears and his eyes shut, the eye lobes flickering back and forth under the closed eyelids. 

It took John a moment to realise that Sherlock was dreaming. He rushed over, but stopped himself from grabbing Sherlock at the last moment. Instead, he placed his hand on Sherlock's shoulder and shook him gently. “Sherlock, wake up! It’s me. It’s just a dream.” 

Sherlock didn't stir. His breathing was fast and shallow. 

“Sherlock!” John shook him a bit harder. “Sherlock, come on! Wake up!”

Sherlock opened his eyes but his gaze was not focused. “Mary …” he whispered. 

John's knees buckled beneath him and he awkwardly managed to sit down on the edge of the sofa, bumping his hip into Sherlock's stomach. He felt sick. This was exactly what Sherlock had said when he woke up in hospital with a patched up hole in his chest after that nightmarish evening in Magnussen’s office. 

Nightmarish, John suddenly thought. Did Sherlock have this awful dream at the hospital too? Did he lie in a drugged haze, wishing he could curl around his wound and put his hands over his ears? What exactly did Mary do to him? 

Sherlock slowly came awake, pulling his hands from his ears and clasping them shakily under his chin. 

“It's …” John stopped himself from claiming that anything was alright. It wasn't. “You were dreaming,” he said instead, lamely. 

Sherlock stared at him and then bolted suddenly for the bathroom. John could hear him retch and went uncertainly to the bathroom door. 

“Do you need anything?” 

Sherlock closed the lid and flushed the toilet. He reached for his toothbrush and started to turn away from John, but stopped himself mid turn. He looked at John with large eyes. “John, I …” He clamped his mouth shut and looked like he was about to be sick again. 

John searched frantically for something to say but eventually decided to fall back on the excuse of emotional space. “Do you want a cup of tea?”

Sherlock nodded and looked away. 

John went out into the kitchen and put the kettle on. He took down mugs and brought out the box of tea bags. He put the tea bags in the tea mugs and he poured the boiling water. Then he grabbed hold of the kitchen counter, leaned forward and tried to breathe his spinning head away. He was going to do this. He was going to be able to do this.

He straightened quickly when Sherlock opened the bathroom door and passed him on the way to the living room. John followed, tea mugs in hand, and sat down next to Sherlock on the sofa. He decided on the direct approach.

“What did Mary do to you? Apart from shooting you, I mean.” John asked.

“She didn’t do anything.” 

“When you were dreaming, you said “I won’t tell, Mary, I promise”. What was it that she didn’t want you to tell?”

Sherlock looked away.

“Was it the shooting? Was that why you didn’t tell me? Was that why you orchestrated that stupid setup in Leinster Gardens and nearly killed yourself again?” John couldn’t stop himself from raising his voice. “Why? Why, Sherlock? I never understood why you did that …” John suddenly ran out of words.

Sherlock swallowed several times, his tea forgotten on the table.  “I had promised,” he finally said. He stood up, went to his room and quietly closed the door.

John sat still on the sofa, reeling, full of unasked questions. Why did Sherlock promise not to tell? It made no sense. And even if he had given such a terrible promise, why did he keep it? Sherlock wasn’t the type to keep a promise if it was inconvenient for him. 

After a moment, John’s mind came to a crashing halt. Actually, Sherlock was precisely the type. He never kept promises because he never made promises. And he didn’t understand unspoken promises - like how being best friends means that you promise not to jump to your death in front of your friend as part of a hoax. But agreeing to be John’s best man was a kind of promise, and he had been the most diligent best man the world had ever seen. And at the wedding, he had not only made a promise, he had made a vow. Publicly. To be there for all three of them.

Sherlock kept his promises. John couldn't wrap his head around this revelation. He felt absurd for struggling with such a simple concept, but with Sherlock, nothing was ever simple. 

John fell back against the sofa cushions, his forgotten mug splashing tea over his trousers. He felt the hot liquid seep through the fabric. Painful, but not hot enough to do any real damage. Good. He stared at the large wet patch and felt it slowly cool against his skin. 

After a few minutes, the fabric was cold, his skin no longer hurt and he had made a decision. He was going to take Sherlock’s side this time. He was going to stop whining, stop hiding and stop pretending that everything was fine. And specifically, he was going to stop pretending that everything could be forgiven and forgotten. 

He stood up and walked to Sherlock’s bedroom door, leaving the mug on the kitchen counter on the way. He knocked and waited a moment, but as he had expected, there was no reply. 

“Sherlock,” John called quietly. “I know that you can hear me. Listen, I’m … I think I understand about the promises.” 

Sherlock stayed silent, but John thought he could hear him moving behind the door. 

“You keep your promises, right? Forever?”

There was a low thud from the door, as if Sherlock had let his head fall against it. 

“Well, let me tell you what I think about promises, Sherlock. I think that some promises don't need to be said out loud. For example, if you marry someone, you also promise not to shoot their best friend in the chest.”

John stopped himself. Was he really going to do this? Yes, he realised. Yes, he was. The decision had made itself even before he was aware of it. 

“I'm leaving Mary.”

John almost fell forward when the door was jerked open. 

“John, no!” Sherlock was pale as a sheet and looked ready to throw up again. 

John looked him steadily in the eye. “I'm the one leaving her, not you. And as far as I am concerned, she is the only one who has broken any promises so far.”

“John,” Sherlock pleaded. “She makes you happy.”

“Actually, no. She doesn't. And even if she did, I couldn't forgive her.”

John saw Sherlock's eyes darting over his face and body, reading him, calculating how to stop him. He felt anger flare in his belly and held up his hand. 

“Stop, Sherlock. I am sick of being manipulated. No more.”

Sherlock flinched as if he had been slapped and looked away. The anger turned to an ache around John's heart. 

“It's alright, Sherlock. This isn't your fight. It’s not your promise that is being broken.”

Sherlock stood still as a statue, but he didn’t protest.

“I’m going now. I don’t know when I’ll be back …” John suddenly realised that he had no idea where he was supposed to go afterwards. There was no question that Mary should stay in their baby proofed home, but he was essentially making himself homeless now.

Sherlock looked up at him, seeing the indecision in his face. His mouth and chin did a complicated motion and he looked very young for a moment.

“Good luck, John. Come back here after. If you want. I think Mrs Hudson still changes the sheets on your bed, you know.”

“Really? She does?”

“Hope springs eternal, and all that,” Sherlock said sarcastically, but his soft eyes betrayed him.

John didn’t bother hiding his smile.  “Yes, it does, doesn’t it?” 

John turned around and started to leave, but stopped suddenly and turned back to Sherlock. “Victor,” he said, hesitantly. 

Sherlock turned pale again and froze.

“I heard you, when you had the nightmare. I was thinking …” John felt stupid for butting in, but it was too late now. “You know how you let me know about Mary, without telling me yourself? If you want, maybe you could do the same thing again?”

Sherlock looked suspicious, but colour was returning to his cheeks.

“Just don’t risk your life again!” John said. “We’ve had enough of that.”

“Yes, I suppose we have,” Sherlock said with a little smile.


	7. Chapter 7

_ 1995 _

“Hold your toast over your plate, Sherlock! You are dropping crumbs all over the floor!” Sherlock’s mother scolded. 

Sherlock sighed and reached for the newspaper. It was best to seem occupied, so that she didn’t start with the questions and the chatter. He started flipping through it, looking for crime stories. There was a robbery gone wrong, which could have been interesting if the robbers hadn’t gotten themselves caught on the security tape, and a domestic dispute growing into a feud between neighbours. He sighed and turned another page. 

HARRY DROWNED IN THE RIVER. The black headline stretched across the spread and there was a big picture of a smiling boy, a few years younger and chubbier than the scrawny kid he had seen disappear into the forest a few days ago. Sherlock screwed his eyes shut and breathed through his nose to stop himself from throwing up all over the breakfast table. In, and out. In, and out. 

“Sherlock, are you done with the paper?” his mother asked behind him. He quickly opened his eyes and turned to the next page, trying to school his face into a neutral expression. He leaned forward over the table and read the first article with as much focus as he could muster. “No, I’m reading,” he muttered.

The story was about another young boy found dead, except this time they claimed it was a swimming accident. Sherlock studied the pictures of the swimming pool and the locker with the boy’s clothes. But where were his shoes? he thought to himself. Where were Carl Powers’ shoes?


	8. Chapter 8

_ 2015 _

It was well past midnight when John dragged his suitcase from the cab to the front door of 221 B Baker Street. As he fiddled with the keys, he heard the soft violin melody stop abruptly. He didn’t need to look up to know that he was being watched from above.

He trudged up the stairs and bumped the living room door open with his shoulder. Sherlock was standing by the window, violin in his hand and the dressing gown hanging open and askew on his thin frame.

John put the suitcase down and sat on the sofa. Sherlock followed suit, putting the violin in its case and sitting down next to him.

“It’s done. It wasn’t pretty, and I don’t want to talk about it right now, but it is done and it will be fine. Or if it isn’t fine, that will be … fine too. I don’t know. Don’t listen to me, I’m babbling.”

John leaned back into the sofa and exhaled the air in his lungs with a big sigh, as if to expel the past from his body. “God, I hope we get a new case soon!” he said. “A nice little case with no danger or madmen. A little intrigue and perhaps a chase or two would be nice. It would clear away the cobwebs.”

Sherlock twisted in his seat and leaned sideways against the back of the sofa, tucking his left foot under his right knee. “As a matter of fact, I have a case that I would like to look into.” 

“Really? Already?” John stopped himself when he saw the nervous expression on Sherlock’s face. Oh. Victor. He tried to school his face into a reassuringly neutral expression. “So, what’s the case?”

Sherlock looked a bit more confident. “It’s a cold case. There was a boy who fell into a river a long time ago. It never sat right with me. I would like to look into it.” He fiddled with the sash of his dressing gown. “Would you like to help me?”

John smiled. “I’d love to help you, Sherlock.”


End file.
